Conduit to the human soul
by Arianna Scribbler
Summary: To Jehan is assigned the task of getting Bahorel to class on time. This goes roughly as well as expected. [Modern college AU]


Author's note: I wrote this ages ago and never got around to cross-posting until now. This is set loosely in the same 'verse as my other college AU stories, though I'm not promising total internal consistency between all the stories. And yes, I'm doing the lazy modern AU thing and just ignoring the whole issue of first names.

Disclaimer: _Les Miserables_ is the property of the estate of Victor Hugo. No profit is being made from this work.

* * *

Getting Bahorel to class was a chore on the best of days. It took a very specific kind of weather for him to go willingly, something just between bleak and quite nice with neither too much sun nor too much wind nor any precipitation to speak of. Bahorel-sitting usually fell to Combeferre, who could talk anyone into doing anything, but with finals approaching 'Ferre was increasingly busy with his own schoolwork and so he gave to Jehan the duty of getting their friend passing grades. In retrospect everyone agreed that this had been a terrible mistake.

On his first day of Bahorel duty Jehan put his hair up and donned the pirate-style shirt that had been Cosette's Christmas present for luck and knocked firmly on Bahorel's door. There was an answering crash and Jehan took a deep breath, steeling himself for the worst. A moment later a disheveled head poked through the door wearing a lopsided grin and a fading black eye. "Sorry," Bahorel said, sounding anything but. "Running a bit late. Come in, sit down, put your feet up."

Jehan reminded himself firmly that he was on a Mission and said, "Combeferre says that your first class is in half an hour."

"It's canceled," Bahorel said cheerfully. "And anyway I don't go to that one. It's terribly dull and the professor may as well be dead for all he cares about his students."

Jehan hesitated, but Bahorel was a fairly honest fellow despite the chronic truancy, so he went into the room without further protest and carefully perched on the only available chair. The room seemed to have been recently visited by a freak tornado, or perhaps a localized windstorm. Papers were scattered across all available surfaces, including floor and bed, while a bewildering array of brightly-colored shirts and jackets hung draped over the bedposts and the back of the chair and all the open drawers. Jehan could only describe it as utter chaos, but it was somehow welcoming rather than daunting or upsetting.

"So you're Jehan, right?" Bahorel asked over his shoulder, rummaging through one of the drawers.

Jehan nodded, remembered that men outside of epics did not have eyes on the backs of their heads, and said, "Yes."

"Poetry major?"

"Yes. Did Combeferre tell you?"

Bahorel laughed. "Guessed," he said, turning around. Jehan saw that he was holding yet another brightly colored article of clothing, this one a jacket of rakish red. "You've got that look."

Jehan drew himself up, preparing to be highly affronted on behalf of his art, but Bahorel only laughed again and waved him back down. "It was a compliment," he said. "Don't have the patience for poetry myself, but I'm not going to go off on you for doing what you like. Follow your passions and screw what anyone else has to say."

Jehan nodded enthusiastically. "Thank you!" he exclaimed. "So many people devalue poetry but it's the conduit to the human soul. All the great humanist philosophies can be expressed better in poetry than any other medium. And look at Shakespeare! Everything he wrote he put in verse and he captured the human spirit better than any writer of his age. Or the French greats! Ronsard, Baudelaire, ___Hugo_! And yet people turn their noses up at poetry as if it were somehow a lesser art, as if it isn't the bedrock upon which Western civilization sits!" He paused for breath, face slightly red with high emotion, only to find Bahorel looking at him with interest.

"Go on," he urged. Then he changed his mind. "Actually, hang on. It's way too nice a day to spend inside. I don't have to be in class until two."

Jehan frowned. "Didn't you have a lab at noon?" he asked.

Bahorel's only response was to grin and button his jacket. "Come on then. You were saying about Hugo?"

Jehan hesitated. Combeferre's firm instructions not to allow himself to be sidetracked played in his mind, but they were overwritten by an intense desire for conversation with an interested party. After thirty seconds the latter camp won and he hopped off the chair, following Bahorel out into the hall.

"He's ___the_ most influential French thinker of the time," he said as they headed towards the stairs. "And just because he's best known for his novels doesn't discount the importance or depth of his poetry. And the way he used language!" Jehan was growing more animated despite himself, encouraged by Bahorel's look of genuine interest. By the time they made it out of the building Jehan had progressed to wild hand motions and vocal exclamation points, both of which only seemed to amuse his companion more. Bahorel steered him off campus towards the nearest park and they perched atop the jungle gym, Bahorel occasionally shooting warning glares at the children who dared try and usurp their positions.

By the time one thirty rolled around Jehan had moved from Hugo to William Blake and discovered that Bahorel was conversant in the works of most of the Renaissance poets known for their bawdy verses and utterly ignorant of those who followed the model given by Petrarch. Bahorel interrupted him partway through an extemporaneous attempt at creating such a poem to suggest lunch.

"Didn't you have class?" Jehan asked, wanting to continue the conversation but needing to do his duty anyway.

"Did I?" Bahorel asked with a grin. "I must have misspoken." He hopped down from the jungle gym. "Anyway, can't study on an empty stomach. You coming?"

Jehan went.

While eating in some charming out of the way hole in the wall Bahorel apparently knew extremely well they started in on classical allusions in Enlightenment works, a topic which eventually led Jehan to drag Bahorel to his favorite second hand bookshop and start reading Ronsard's ___Ode to Calliope_ in excited tones. Bahorel continuously interrupted with his own commentary, and before too long Jehan had abandoned the book altogether and they were arguing intently about the relative merits of allusion versus imitation.

When Jehan checked the time again it was nearly five and the bookshop owner looked more than ready for them to leave. Jehan bought the Ronsard book to placate the man and Bahorel carried it for him as they made their way back to the dorm.

Combeferre was waiting for them when they made it back to the floor. He took one look at Jehan's windswept hair and the book under Bahorel's arm and rolled his eyes. "I should have known," he said. "Did either of you make it to any classes today?"

"We were busy expanding our spiritual horizons," Bahorel informed him, handing Jehan his book. "And honing our intellects through healthy debate."

Combeferre only shook his head in resignation. Feuilly, Bahorel's roommate, snickered. "What did you expect?" he wanted to know.

Combeferre didn't bother answering that, just went back into his room muttering about the rest of them being too old to need babysitters. Bahorel was still grinning.

"We should do that again," he declared.

"On a weekend," Jehan agreed, but he was grinning too.

"Oh, certainly. It wouldn't do to upset Combeferre, now would it?"

It was Jehan's turn to roll his eyes, but all he said was, "It would not."

"Until this weekend then," Bahorel said, turning to go into his own bedroom. Jehan nodded and unlocked his door, mind already straying back to Ronsard and points he could use to win the argument next time it came up.

Joly escorted Bahorel to class for the rest of the semester.


End file.
